


Stay Awhile

by fridaysblues (taemin)



Series: DJ Chanyeol AU [1]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:40:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3166874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taemin/pseuds/fridaysblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all a coincidence: meeting at the club, ending up at the same university, working on the same show. To Jongin, meeting Chanyeol feels more like incredibly good luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Awhile

**Author's Note:**

> For Ang :")

The first time they meet it’s late May, a muggy Friday night. Jongin’s celebrating the end of finals. The ID card he’s borrowing from a friend burning a hole in his pocket as he makes a beeline for his favorite club. The air outside is thick and humid as it wraps around Jongin like wet velvet. It’s uncomfortably hard to breathe. He’s grateful the thunderstorm starts when it does: it washes away the crowds of people waiting to get into the club and the guy at the door barely glances at the card before he gestures inside, probably a little too desperate to get out of the rain himself to notice that Jongin’s ID very obviously doesn’t belong to him.

It’s packed inside, probably because everyone’s had the same thought: fuck studying, _let’s go dancing._ Taemin'd be here with him, if he hadn't gotten stuck helping out with the dance team's auditions for next year. Jongin ends up wedged against the DJ booth with a watered down vodka tonic in his hand, hips swaying a little with the beat but it’s too fucking crowded to even try to attempt anything serious. He’s been here a few times before. One of the better spots for dance music, as long as the DJ’s good. Tonight’s offering is a setlist by _Park Brotha CY_. Jongin cringes at the name, but begrudgingly has to admit to himself that the mixes are pretty good; definitely better than he was expecting with a name like that.

According to the flyers posted everywhere, he’s a guest, borrowed from Club Dragonfly across town. Jongin’s tried to get into Dragonfly half a dozen times but he’s never made it past the threshold, always turned away at the door. He’s passable for Taemin's older brother if the guy at the door’s not looking carefully, but Dragonfly’s bouncer has an eye for detail and notices the darker eyes, the flatter nose.

At least that won’t be a problem come next semester.

Jongin tries to peer into the booth but he keeps missing CY’s face, sees the wide brim of a baseball cap underneath the hood of a sweatshirt, a shock of dark bangs obscuring his face as he bounces back and forth between his turntables and his laptop.

Someone bumps into Jongin’s elbow and spills half his drink down his shirt.

“Fuck, watch where you’re going,” he seethes, shirt sopping and cold against his skin. The kid turns and looks at his face, expression morphing from apologetic to suspicious.

“You don’t look old enough to be here.”

He swears loudly enough to be heard just as the music transitions and all of a sudden there’s a hand around his elbow, pulling him up the stairs and away from the angry patron who’s recognized Jongin shouldn’t _be in here_ , much less drinking overpriced alcohol and getting underfoot.

“Kid.” The voice is deep and rumbles at the edges. Jongin’s surprised to be face to face with CY, whose youthful face and wide eyes betray the mature timbre and the _cool and mysterious DJ_ image he’s operating under. Jongin looks down at his shirt, soaked through with too much tonic water and not nearly enough vodka and thinks, _I barely touched this, why do I feel drunk?_ and then _Shit, I’m going to smell like liquor when I sneak back in tonight._

“I’m not a kid,” he stammers. “I just look young for my age.”

CY leans across Jongin to push a slider, then settles back against his chair. “Bullshit. You’re still in high school, aren’t you?”

Jongin scowls. “No. I’m a freshman—”

“Then you should come back next year.” He fishes the lemon wedge out of Jongin’s glass and inspects it thoughtfully.

“Are you going to kick me out?”

CY’s eyes dart away to alight on Jongin’s concerned expression. “What do I look like, the bouncer? I don’t care if you're here.” He pops the lemon into his mouth and sucks at it slowly. “You should go home, though. That guy you spilled your drink on?”

“I hardly spilled any of it on him, _I’m_ wearing most of it—”

“Who cares? He’s the club owner’s son.” CY’s words are muffled around the fruit in his mouth. Jongin wants to laugh but he’s watching the way his cheeks suck in against his teeth and he swallows involuntarily, trying not to think about getting blown in the alley behind this place last week because it’s clearly not going to happen this week, not when he’s being called _kid_ and told to go home.

“It’s packed in here. He won’t find me again,” he says finally.

CY produces the lemon rind between his teeth, stripped bare of fruit, and drops it back into Jongin’s glass. “And if he does? You think you won’t get blacklisted?”

“You don’t look that much older,” Jongin says defensively, frowning at his contaminated drink. “You’re the youngest DJ _I’ve_ seen.”

“I’m old enough to be out after midnight.” CY flashes him a wide grin full of teeth and waves his hand. “Go. Get out of here. The bouncers will be looking out for you, now.”

Jongin sighs heavily, but relents. He knows when to avoid a fight. He sets the glass on the ledge under CY’s laptop and turns to leave.

“You’ve got some really sick remixes,” he tosses over his shoulder as he leaves. “I’m surprised you’re not better known around the scene.”

“That’s partially by design.” CY’s face is already buried back into his laptop screen, one ear of his headphones cupped against his ear as he flicks another button into a crossfade. The throbbing beats around the booth accelerate into yet another song. It’s an interesting transitional choice but it _works_ and Jongin’s impressed for the third or fourth time that night. “Get out of here, Kid, or I really will have to get the bouncer.”

♯♯♯

They meet for the second time nearly a year later. Jongin’s abandoned the fake ID at this point now that he’s old enough to get into the clubs he’s trying to get into. Not that he goes out as much anymore—the university’s kept him busy with a revolving door of papers and assignments that keep his body planted firmly in a chair at the library instead of on a crowded dance floor.

Taemin roped Jongin into auditioning for the student union's production of West Side Story and Jongin's regretting it mostly because he'd only committed to be an extra Jet, not an actual, named role with lines to memorize (which is exactly what happens when the original actor slated to play Chino comes down with a nasty case of mono two weeks before opening night). He spends nights he can't afford to spare down in the rehearsal space, memorizing his footwork, rattling off lines over the echo of finger snaps in the abandoned classroom.

Tech week is a nightmare. He's fighting off a cold, ignoring a term paper that could hold him back an entire semester, and things keep going wrong with the microphone pack they've given him. _"Jongin—go see Chanyeol up in the sound booth. You're going to need a new mic,"_ the director snaps tersely after an especially loud pop of feedback nearly bursts the eardrums of everyone in the theatre.

Jongin sighs, frustrated, and hops off the stage. The rehearsal's running long already and he's not going to make it out in time to get to the library before it closes. He'd put a book on hold _last week_ and still hasn't gotten around to picking it up. It’s the last fucking book he needs to round out the research for this latest joke of a paper for his history class and he just wants to go back to his apartment and break the world record for longest nap. He's worrying about this when all of a sudden he’s looking up into a familiar pair of eyes. He’s sporting a ridiculous pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses without lenses and his hair’s cropped close to his skull this time but there’s no mistaking who it is, and when his nose crinkles in vague recognition, Jongin knows he’s not remembering incorrectly.

“Kid.” That same voice. CY breaks into a wide, toothy grin. "Thought that was you."

“Jongin, actually.” He tries to sound casual even though it feels like his heart has crept up into his throat. “So, you go here?”

“No, I just wandered in here and thought this seemed like a sweet gig. Look at all these buttons just asking to be pressed,” he cracks. “I’m Chanyeol. You weren’t kidding about going to university, then. I could have sworn you were younger.”

Jongin shrugs. “I get that a lot.”

“Me too,” Chanyeol admits, clasping his hands together. “So, can I help you with something?”

Jongin blinks. He’s completely forgotten why the director sent him to the sound booth. “Tell me where you’re playing your next set,” he blurts out instead. Chanyeol looks a little uncomfortable as he glances over at the spotlight operator who’s now staring curiously in their direction, and leans in to speak quietly in Jongin’s ear.

“That’s not really something I talk about here. Do you mind keeping it down?”

Jongin raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I like to keep my extracurricular activities separate.”

“So it’s like your secret identity or something?” He tugs on the string of his sweatshirt, winding it around his fingers to keep his hands busy with something.

“You make it sound like I’m Clark Kent,” Chanyeol laughs. The abandoned headset on the desk crackles with static and a muffled, tinny voice asks a question which goes unanswered. “I just wanted a little separation between my daytime and nighttime activities.”

“So... less Clark Kent and more stripper,” Jongin teases.

“You caught me.” Chanyeol rolls his eyes. “No, it’s just—it’s not—I’d have a lot of explaining to do if my father caught wind of what I was up to on my down time.” He shrugs. “The perils of being a professor’s son. Can’t have any decent secrets on this campus without him finding out about them.”

“So what—you’re a music student?”

“Hardly,” he scoffs. “Auditory science.”

The voice asks another question over the headset. Jongin glances at it nervously before looking back at Chanyeol. “What do you do with that?”

“If my father has anything to do with it, I’ll be designing hearing aids.”

“And if _you_ have anything to do with it?”

“It’d be cool to be able to support myself with my music,” he says finally. “Maybe some day.”

“I think you’re good enough for that.”

“Well, there’s one album sold. Guess I can buy dinner, now.” Chanyeol smiles. “And you? Dance? Theatre?”

“I wish. Physical therapy. It was the most practical of the options I was given.”

Chanyeol nods understandingly.

“Chanyeol? Everything okay?” The spotlight operator’s standing in the doorway of the soundbooth now, a stack of lighting gels balanced on his hip. He glances at Jongin, an impassive look on his face as his eyes rake over his jeans, his partially-zipped sweatshirt. Jongin feels self-conscious. He knows he looks like a slob, but he’d expected rehearsal to run long (they’d been running long every night this week), so he’d dressed for maximum comfort.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Junmyeon. Just catching up with a friend I haven’t seen in a while,” he lies with a straight face.

Junmyeon smiles tightly. “Reunion’ll have to wait. We’ve still got to run the second act.” He points at the headset around his neck and shakes a finger. “I’ll be on the cue channel. Don’t be long.”

Chanyeol inclines his head in acknowledgement as Junmyeon retreats until it’s just the two of them in the sound booth again, Jongin’s hands stuffed in his pockets as he stares at the ceiling.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Jongin asks nervously.

Chanyeol smirks. “Did you _need_ something? Or are you just here to interrupt my shit again?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Jongin recalls belatedly, “my microphone—”

“Just needs a battery change,” Chanyeol says confidently. “No problem. Won’t take long at all.”

Jongin looks for him after rehearsal but he’s already gone. The soundbooth is dark, chair swiveling gently from the momentum of someone who’d been in a hurry to leave.

♯♯♯

The cast and crew goes out on a bar crawl after opening weekend as a bonding ritual. Jongin bumps into Chanyeol halfway through the evening, somewhere in the strobing depths of the third bar. That’s what he thinks, anyway, but he’s pretty drunk and they’re all blurring together when he tries to remember where he’s been tonight. His throat's been bothering him and he's been drinking neat whiskey all night trying to combat the sore throat he fears is inevitable. So far, all it’s managed to successfully combat is his sobriety.

"Strong stuff," Chanyeol remarks, putting a hand out to catch Jongin when he nearly sways off the bar stool.

"Isn't alcohol supposed to kill germs?" Jongin wonders out loud. His voice cracks slightly on the question. Chanyeol laughs.

"You'd think. Why? Are you getting sick?"

He doesn't recoil the way a cast member probably would and Jongin feels himself grow warm with appreciation. "I think so. I haven't been sleeping enough, my immune system is for shit right now."

"Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Why don't you take me home, then?" Jongin retorts. The bar is dark and he can't be sure but he swears Chanyeol blushes when he leans in to put his hand on the small of Jongin’s back.

“I can barely hear you. You’re losing your voice.”

“I know.”

They spend the rest of the night flirting on napkins. Chanyeol joins in on the silence even though his voice is perfectly fine. Jongin writes things like _i like ur music ^^v_ and Chanyeol promises to burn him a copy of his last setlist—

 _But it’s 4 ur ears only, ok? i don’t usually share w/ anybody_.

Jongin returns: _I feel special :3_

Chanyeol intercepts the ballpoint pen and scribbles _u should, u are_ underneath it. Jongin’s ears burn red and he drains his glass while he struggles to retain his composure.

When Chanyeol goes to the bathroom, Jongin orders them another round of drinks by pushing a coaster at the bartender that reads _give him another, and one for me too._ Chanyeol sees the coaster when he comes back and pockets it, smiling.

 _Want 2 get out of here?_ he writes after his glass is empty again. His eyes are calm, crinkled slightly at the corners from the wide smile he’s been sporting all night. _They’ll be here all night & ur sick._

Jongin wants to sit at the bar for another three hours passing notes with Chanyeol like they’ve got a secret to keep. _I’m fine,_ he writes with a flourish, mouth set in a firm line. _Nothing the whiskey won’t fix._

“You don’t want me to tuck you in?” Chanyeol teases out loud, breaking the silence between them for the first time in over an hour. The bottom drops out of Jongin’s stomach.

“I. Um,” he rasps.

"Let me walk you home,” Chanyeol coaxes. His hands are big and steady, calloused fingers stroking the soft skin of Jongin’s cheek. His eyes search for confirmation in Jongin’s face for a moment before he leans in and brushes their mouths together. Jongin’s so surprised he doesn’t even protest when Chanyeol tugs him off the barstool.

"You're not drunk," Jongin mutters accusingly when he finds it hard to stay on his feet. "How are you not drunk?"

Chanyeol shrugs. "Nope. I've got a good tolerance built up from working in the clubs. Can't really be drunk and drop beats."

Jongin laughs harder than the joke probably deserves. "That's funny."

"I try." Chanyeol loops an arm around Jongin's waist and holds him in a standing position. "Come on, Chino. _Esta muy sick-o._ "

“I’m not sure that’s right,” Jongin murmurs dizzily into the of jut of Chanyeol's shoulder as he leads him past the rest of the company and out into the night.

♯♯♯

When Jongin rolls over the next morning there's a bottle of water and two ibuprofen sitting on his side table, a bright pink post-it note adhered to the rim of the glass. _Take these. U don't have any cold medicine in ur house? Call me when U get up, I'll bring some 4u. Chanyeol._ His phone number’s underneath.

He texts it immediately: _I don't think the whiskey helped._

The response comes less than a minute later: _that means u didn't drink enough_ and then: _i'll be over in half an hour. did u eat?_

Chanyeol stops by with cartons of take-out and a stack of movies. Jongin’s not hungry and refuses to eat but he settles in next to Chanyeol on the couch and doesn’t object to the superhero movie he puts in the DVD player. The blanket from the back of the couch is unfolded and spread across their laps, thighs flush under the fleece throw. Chanyeol’s fingers slip through the spaces between Jongin’s and he’s vaguely reminded of some junior high camping trip, sharing a bench by the campfire with a boy named Kyungsoo who’d roasted him marshmallows and been the first person outside of Jongin’s family to hold his hand. This feels like that: warm, safe, a giddy secret just for the two of them.

He dozes off against Chanyeol's shoulder before the opening credits have even finished rolling. Chanyeol wakes him up sometime around the halfway mark with a hand pressed to his forehead, face solemn.

"You should go to bed."

"Mmm, movie's not over," he whispers, throat raw. He closes his eyes again.

"You've got another weekend of shows." Chanyeol frowns. "You need to get better. We don’t cast understudies for the understudy." He makes two mugs of tea and crawls into bed next to Jongin on top of the covers. "Finish this and then you can sleep."

"Tastes like shit," Jongin mutters darkly after a few mouthfuls of the grassy, bitter drink. "Want lemon. And sugar. A lot of sugar. All the sugar."

"It tastes fine. It tastes like healthy." Chanyeol rolls his eyes, trying to camouflage his own disgust when he takes a sip.

♯♯♯

Jongin wakes up swimming in sweat, skin tacky and cold. He’s being pinned down by a heavy arm and there’s a face nestled in the dip of his neck. His throat feels worse, voice scratching like a pack-a-day smoker’s when he tries to speak. Chanyeol cracks an eye open and shakes his head, puts a finger to his lips. _Don't,_ he mouths. _Close your eyes._

It's only when he's on the cusp of falling back asleep that he realizes that Chanyeol spent the whole night next to him and didn’t once look at his watch or complain about Jongin’s ragged coughing fits that keep shaking him awake every hour or so.

Chanyeol keeps Jongin on a steady diet of lemon tea with honey, as much ramen as he can stomach, cold glasses of orange juice and ice water at night when the fever sweats him awake. He sits in the chair by Jongin’s bed, or sometimes _in_ bed next to him, propped up against the headboard with his laptop balanced on his knees. He shows Jongin how to master audio, how to clip tracks and create loops. In the time it takes for Jongin's fever to break, Chanyeol mixes an entire song. He narrates his entire process for Jongin, who scribbles questions in a notebook and pushes them in Chanyeol’s face to be answered. When Jongin gets drowsy, Chanyeol switches to streaming some drama that lulls in the background while Jongin nods off under Chanyeol's arm.

It breaks after the third day. Jongin's a little sad, frankly, when the thermometer comes back a normal 37 degrees, because it means Chanyeol packs up and goes home, starts sleeping in his own bed.

He comments on this on Friday night, shirt hiked between his teeth while Chanyeol fiddles with opening a fresh economy pack of batteries. "It's just weird. I guess I got used to you trying to smother me in my sleep," he hedges, trying not to come on too strong, which is weird when he thinks about it since they'd jumped from first kiss to cohabitation within twenty-four hours. _Come back,_ he thinks, secretly hoping Chanyeol is telepathic.

"You snore like a motherfucker," Chanyeol teases, tucking the mic pack into the back of his pants and winding the cord up Jongin's bare back. “Had to go home to get some _rest_.”

"I was sick!" Jongin shivers at Chanyeol's touch, warm hands skimming up the curve of his back. Chanyeol applies tape at the base of Jongin's neck and leans forward to brush his lips against the knob of his spine.

"Don't worry about it. It was cute."

Jongin blushes, temporarily speechless. Chanyeol trails the microphone around his ear and tapes it to his cheek. He dips his head forward, breath warm on Jongin's mouth as he tugs the shirt free and smooths out the wrinkles. "Break a leg, okay?"

Jongin nods dizzily, eyes closed. "Mmm." He waits for a kiss that doesn’t come. When he opens his eyes, Chanyeol’s sitting back in his chair, eyes twinkling mischieviously.

"Go on, Chino. And hey, tell Tony and Maria I need to see them before soundcheck." He swivels away, hands already busy with the controls spread out in front of him.

♯♯♯

After the show’s over, Jongin feels strangely bereft. It aches like a bad break-up, the way he longs for his castmates but when they get together it doesn’t feel the same. The magic’s gone.

He doesn’t see much of Chanyeol, either. Between his job at the college radio station, the mountains of coursework he’s trying to complete to head into his senior year, and his occasional DJing gigs, he’s busy. After that weekend, text messages peter out until they’re a random occurrence, usually fifteen minutes before Jongin's heading to bed.

_Playing ur song tonight,_ he messages Jongin two weeks later, referring to the track he’d mixed during Jongin’s convalescence.

 _Best thing in your repertoire tbh,_ Jongin replies, tossing the phone across the bed. He sighs loudly enough that his roommate hears him from the next room and comes to stand in the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Just tell him you want to see him,” Zitao chides. “Don’t you think you’ve been playing hard to get long enough?” A philosophy major, Zitao becomes insufferably pragmatic every time Jongin’s struggling with something. Jongin tries desperately not to feed into it but sometimes there’s just no hiding his frustration.

“Who says I want to see him?” he huffs, nervously flattening his bangs against his forehead. “And anyway, don’t you have homework? Leave me alone.”

“Why are you so afraid to ask him for something more consistent? He played nursemaid for three whole days, Jongin. He's not _not_ interested.”

Jongin’s just about to open his mouth for a rebuttal when his phone buzzes again. He snaps it up.

Zitao rolls his eyes. “Say hi to Chanyeol for me.”

_Aren’t u going 2 come hear it? I’d like 2 c u. I miss u :’[_

“I—I’ve got to go.” He grins into the screen as he taps out a reply: _o rly?_

“Change your shirt,” Zitao tosses over his shoulder as he walks away. “And fix your hair, it’s a mess.”

_yeah im sry my schedule’s been crazy. :’[_

_Make it up to me?_ Jongin pulls on a fresh shirt and stares at himself in the mirror for what feels like forever before he buttons a second shirt over the first one.

_I’m sure I can think of something ^^;_

It’s chilly outside, barely feels like summer’s around the corner as Jongin ignores the bus idling at the corner to run the ten blocks to Dragonfly. The line’s wrapped around the building and as he stares at it with his hands on his knees, chest heaving from exertion, he feels an overwhelming sense of dismay. There’s no way he’ll get in before the set begins.

The cement curb is cold through his jeans when he plunks down in the middle of the street, tossing his phone back and forth between his palms. He doesn’t know what to say, keeps tapping out _the line’s too long, come find me_ and erasing it again. He doesn’t want to sound needy. _Can’t make it. I’ll see you after the show,_ he decides. _Meet you out back._ He hits send and puts his head in his hands, groaning.

“Kid. What are you doing here?”

He looks up, face splitting into a wide smile at the familiar baseball cap before an equally familiar set of full, pink lips crash into his with enough force to bruise. Chanyeol doesn’t even bother to let him stand up, just crouches next to him by the side of the road and pulls their faces together.

“I told you I’d make it up to you,” Chanyeol says when they come up for air. Jongin laughs, voice a little uneven.

“Is that what this is?”

“I figure it’s a good place to start,” he murmurs, the brim of his hat knocking against Jongin’s forehead when he leans in again. “Unless you’ve got any better ideas?”

Jongin shrugs. “A few, but I hear I snore.”

“You do. Like a motherfucker.” Chanyeol grins, pulling Jongin to his feet. “Lucky for you, I own a good pair of earplugs.”


End file.
